


Arts and Crafts in the Shatterdome

by steelplatedhearts



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-19
Updated: 2013-08-19
Packaged: 2017-12-24 01:06:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/933299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You've got to have a hobby if you work in the shatterdome--something that will let you forget about the monsters at the door.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Arts and Crafts in the Shatterdome

Working on a Jaeger is a few hours of intensity, followed by days, weeks, maybe months of downtime. To keep the rangers and the crew focused and calm, the PPDC strongly suggests that everyone find some sort of pastime to keep their minds otherwise occupied between Kaiju outbreaks.

After all, everyone’s got to have a hobby.

*   *   *   *   *  

When Raleigh is in the fourth grade, his teacher, Mrs. Edmunds, sits the entire class down and teaches them how to knit.

It’s just supposed to fill the arts requirement for the school, with the added bonus of keeping the kids sitting still and focused on something, nothing more than that. But Raleigh finds, much to his surprise, that he enjoys it. It’s soothing, in a way, and what’s more, he’s actually good at it—when everyone else is still on one-color scarves, Raleigh advances to adding stripes and making different shapes.

Yancy makes fun of him, in the casual, well-meaning way that he has, but Raleigh just rolls his eyes and makes Jazmine another hat.

But he grows up, and the teasing shifts from Yancy at home to kids in school. It takes a sharper, crueler edge, so he puts his needles away and hides the yarn under the bed and doesn’t think about it again until three weeks into the Jaeger program. He’s out roaming around the city when he’s caught in a storm and ducks into the first shop he sees.

He straightens up, shaking water out of his hair, and turns to see brightly colored yarn everywhere in sight.

“Can I help you?” the woman at the front counter asks, peering over her glasses at him.

He thinks about saying no, but the yarns look so soft and inviting that he ends up leaving the shop with seven different skeins and three different needle sizes.

Yancy pulls a face at him when he gets back to base. “This again? I thought you grew out of that.”

“It’s not wise to insult a man with pointy things,” Raleigh says, waving a knitting needle in Yancy’s direction. “Don’t make me get blood on the yarn.”

“Oh _no_ ,” Yancy says, grinning. “Not the _yarn_.”

He knits Yancy a lumpy sweater in a hideously bright combination of orange and neon blue in what’s supposed to be retaliation, but ends up backfiring when Yancy wears it everywhere without a hint of irony.

“I like it,” he says. “It’s very chic.”

“You want chic?” Raleigh asks, needles clacking. “I’ll give you chic.”

Over the next few weeks, he knits Yancy purple and yellow gloves, a fuchsia scarf, and a hat that looks like a frog. Yancy wears them all with pride.

“Us adults are supposed to encourage our kid’s self-expression,” he says, grinning.

Raleigh throws a needle at him. He’s not actually _mad_ , of course, but it’s the principle of the thing.

*   *   *   *   *  

Yancy isn’t a fan of math, but the woman at the airport newsstand assures him that Sudoku has no relation to actual math.

So he grabs a book of the puzzles, buys a pen, and settles in for their flight to Kodiak Island.

Raleigh falls asleep on his shoulder ten minutes in, but Yancy hardly notices, so absorbed is he in the Sudoku book.

He keeps it with him during training as he and Raleigh advance higher and higher in the ranks. He’s working on puzzle number eighty-seven when the news comes through that they’re getting their own Jaeger.

He starts doing the puzzles in Danger’s shadow, leaning against one of her legs as he fills in the boxes. He’s struggling over puzzle number one-forty-five when a voice from behind him says, “The top right box should be a three.”

Yancy starts, coming out of his daze. “Excuse me?”

“That top right box,” the man says, pointing. “You have it as a seven. It should be a three.”

“Oh.” Yancy looks down and sees the error. “Thanks.” He erases the seven, puts in a three, and smiles at the man, extending his hand. “Yancy Becket.”

“Tendo Choi.”

“You a big Sudoku fan?” he asks.

“Nah,” Tendo says. “I’m just good with numbers.”

“Damn,” Yancy says in mock outrage. “And here they told me it wasn’t a math game.”

Tendo laughs. “Good luck with the rest of it,” he says, walking off.

“Thanks,” Yancy calls after him.

*   *   *   *   *  

Mako’s father made swords, beautiful, shining things that could kill you despite their prettiness.

She cannot make swords. She’d wanted her father to teach her, but she was too young. Then the Kaiju attacked and it didn’t matter anymore.

If she can’t work with swords, she decides, she’ll have to content herself with plain metal. It starts with bits of wire, coiled up and intertwined until she has a chainmail bracelet. She moves on to welding scraps of metal taken from building the Jaeger—in random patterns at first, but she slowly learns how to make small trinkets.

She makes Sensei a plain, unobtrusive cuff, which he wears with his uniform. She makes pendants for the Wei triplets, who string them on their dog tag chains. When the Kaidonovskys visit, she presents them with a barrette and a broach. Lieutenant Sasha clips the barrette in Lieutenant Aleksis’s hair, and he pins the broach on her jacket.

Then Chuck is assigned to a Jaeger, and everything is ruined.

He is cruel about it, gloating that he has a Jaeger and she does not. She doesn’t behave any better—by the time they’re pulled apart, he has a black eye and bruises everywhere. She storms off, fuming, and goes straight for her toolbox.

There isn’t room to dwell on anger and hurt when you’re working with metal, and as she welds, Mako focuses on the work in front of her, letting go of her anger at Chuck.

She goes to see them off with Sensei. “I made you these,” she says, presenting a small bag to Ranger Hansen. “For luck.” He takes the bag, pulling out the two rings she’d made a day earlier.

“Thank you, Miss Mori,” he says with a slight bow. He turns to speak with Sensei, leaving her alone with Chuck.

They do not talk. Just because she doesn’t want him to die doesn’t mean she’s forgiven him for the things he said. From his glare, it appears he hasn’t forgiven her either.

She watches his interview after his first Jaeger kill. It’s fairly normal for Chuck—he’s boastful and proud, and Mako can’t help but roll her eyes.

But she notices, when he throws his fist into the air in victory, he’s wearing the ring she’d made him.

*   *   *   *   *  

For Tendo, most days in the shatterdome are rough, but this day is particularly terrible. One of the interns fucked up some of Danger’s code, the suits decided to schedule an unannounced inspection, and the coffee machine broke before Tendo managed to get a single cup.

He heads straight back to his room once he’s let out, and hauls his guitar out from under his bed. He could take it down to the rec room, but he doesn’t want to be that asshole with an acoustic. So he kicks his shoes off and settles on his bed, strumming absentmindedly and picking a tune out of thin air.

Yancy doesn’t knock when he comes in, as usual. “I heard the LOCCENT coffeemaker broke down,” he says, waving a paper cup in the air. “I talked some coffee out of the lab guys. I’m about 85% sure it wasn’t made from Kaiju guts.”

“See, this is why I love you,” Tendo says, accepting both the coffee and a kiss.

“If I’d known coffee was the way to your heart, I would have tried that ages ago,” Yancy says, throwing himself on the bed next to Tendo.

“If coffee was the only way to my heart, I’d be in a committed relationship with every barista who’s ever made me a drink,” Tendo says dryly, picking out a few random chords. Yancy laughs, pulling out a magazine and settling down.

They pass the rest of the night mostly in silence, the only sounds coming from Tendo’s guitar. Yancy tries to hum along absentmindedly every so often, but the song changes so often that he quickly gives up, content to read his magazine and just listen.

As Tendo plays, he feels his pulse slowing down, his breathing even out. There’s something about the wordless, ever-changing song that’s always relaxed him. He assigns various chords to different people and situations, and he plays the story of the day. Today, the chords assigned to Yancy come up in the melody, over and over again.

“You should probably get to bed,” Tendo says after a while, glancing at the clock. “I’ve got a feeling we’re overdue for an attack.”

But Yancy is already asleep, magazine open on his chest. Tendo considers waking him up and sending him back to his own room, but knows that’s a battle he’s destined to lose.  So he puts his guitar away, slips Yancy’s shoes off, and climbs into bed, switching off the light.

Yancy shifts in his sleep, throwing an arm over Tendo and pulling him close.

Despite the day’s start, Tendo sleeps well that night.

*   *   *   *   *  

Newt grew up in a house filled with music, and knew how to play the piano before he could do much of anything else.

He can’t bring his piano to the shatterdome. He can’t bring the drums, either, even though he tried. So he packs up his old, battered violin, and carries it all the way to the shatterdome.

He doesn’t touch it for the first month he’s there—there’s a lab to set up, paperwork to fill out, and then there’s the _actual Kaiju dissections_ , which is beyond cool.

But no job can be amazing forever, and eventually he gets locked into a meeting that stretches on for what feels like years.

Hermann’s complaining about something-or-the-other—Kaiju guts on his side of the lab, Newt’s music choices—who even cares, anyway? He’s not _hurting_ anyone, you know, he’s not shooting up the lab or setting things on fire.

The mediator keeps asking weirdly patronizing questions, like _how do you think this makes Dr. Gottlieb feel_ , and _how would you feel if the situations were reversed?_

“What question do you really want to ask, here?” Newt asks finally. “I know there’s something you’re not asking. Just—just _say it_ , okay?”

“Oh, for God’s sake,” Hermann mutters. “Do you feel bad about this at all?”

“No,” Newt says, confused. “No—what? No.”

The mediator sighs, exchanging a glance with Hermann. They’re both dismissed, and Newt feels like he’s missing something.

He heads back to his quarters, frustrated. People are confusing, and science is much less so. It’s like music, in a way—full of patterns, and actions that get expected results.

He stops short, then digs the violin out of his closet. He places it under his chin, then plays a note.

A flat. He can play this string a million times, it will always be an A flat.

He plays it again, louder. If he presses down on the string, it will always be louder.

It’s simple, even if it doesn’t seem like it. The song he starts seems complex, but it’s just a combination of notes, played at set speeds and pressures.

Music doesn’t want anything from him. Science doesn’t roll its eyes and sigh at him. They both just _are_.

*   *   *   *   *  

Hermann doesn’t like to leave his lab.

There’s a little kitchenette a few doors down from the lab, so when he’s working, he has easy access to tea and noodles, so he doesn’t have to leave for food. He has all his work there, so he doesn’t have to leave for research.

After a while, he moves his plants into the lab as well, and with that, he never has to leave the lab at all, except to sleep.

When he’d left for college, his mother had given him a tiny bonsai tree for his dorm room. Even with all the papers and tests he’d had that first year, he kept the tree alive—watering it daily, pruning it as needed. He bought another one that first summer, and a third a year and a half later.

He has a daily routine for them—he gets to his lab, does a thorough watering, and starts his work. Once a week, he takes them from their pots and does a full soak. Every couple of months, he carefully prunes them.

He likes his bonsai trees. They’re quiet and nonjudgmental. When Newt’s not around, he talks to them. He talks out his thoughts, the snags in his research, and his frustrations with Newt.

They do not talk back. But he thinks that might be a good thing.

*   *   *   *   *  

It starts with Sasha’s hair.

She wants to keep it back, out of her face, and she’s never had the patience to braid it herself. His braiding skills are clumsy at first, but he gets better after time.

One of the technicians—Maxwell, he thinks her name is—asks Sasha about her braids one day at lunch.

“They’re so nice,” she says, eyes sparkling. “I’ve always wanted to do cool braids, but I never could make them stay.”

“Aleksis does them for me,” Sasha says, running a fingertip along one braid. “You want him to do yours?”

So he braids Maxwell’s hair. She thanks him profusely, and leaves. That, he thinks, is the end of that.

It is not. Miss Mori comes by the next day with freshly dyed blue hair, wanting him to help braid it up. Maxwell eats with them again, asking for a hairstyle for an upcoming date. A woman from munitions stops by their quarters for help choosing between two different cuts.

Aleksis starts to think Sasha is sending these people to him on purpose.

It’s not long before word spreads, so eventually he decides to occupy the rec room from seven to eight, when nobody’s using it. He lets it be known that anyone who’d like is welcome to come by for a hair appointment.

The hour is always busy, but he doesn’t mind. It’s fun, pinning and spraying hair in place while the “customers” relax.

Sasha doesn’t mind, either. “As long as my hair comes first,” she says with a smirk.

*   *   *   *   *  

Sasha is not good at sitting still.

She needs to be moving, or at least doing something with her hands while she sits still—she’s lost more than one piece of jewelry due to slipping it off and fidgeting with it.

It starts to become a problem when it interrupts briefings. Her fingers are _tap-tap-tapping_ on the table in front of her, and people are shooting her _looks_.

After the meeting, when they’re back in their quarters, Aleksis rummages around and comes up with a pocketknife and a block of wood. “Here,” he says, placing them on her nightstand. “Bring that to the next meeting.”

She leaves a pile of wood shavings behind and doesn’t make anything out of the block, but at least she’s quieter.

Aleksis manages to dig more wood out from somewhere—she doesn’t ask and he doesn’t say anything—and she keeps at it, carving chunks of wood away whenever she gets twitchy.

The shelves in their quarters start to fill up with little statuettes of bears and cats and birds. She manages a passable carving of Cherno Alpha, and carves out a couple of rough figures that might be her and Aleksis.

She keeps those two, and Cherno Alpha, but starts leaving the others around base. A bear in the kitchen here, a bird balanced on the weights there—she doesn’t know who takes them, but they always end up gone one way or another.

Sasha carves a statuette of Coyote Tango when the Marshall comes to visit, and leaves it on the windowsill of the meeting room. She sees the young Miss Mori pick it up and slip it into her pocket, enchanted by the tiny replica of her guardian’s Jaeger. Sasha looks back, catches the girl’s eye, and winks.

Miss Mori winks back.

*   *   *   *   *

Newt and Hermann are having another one of their perpetual arguments that no one can quite remember the start of when they storm into Marshall Pentecost’s quarters one afternoon.

“You have to _deal with him_ , Marshall!” Hermann says furiously. Newt is right on his heels, protesting loudly.

“Deal with me? Someone should deal with _you!_ ” Newt says, charging in after Hermann. “You—”

They stop short when they see the Marshall in the middle of the room, wearing loose-fitting clothes and stretching his leg behind his head.

“Afternoon, gentlemen,” he says calmly, keeping his balance. “I _know_ you’re not interrupting my yoga session.”

Hermann recovers first. “No sir,” he says, grabbing Newt’s arm and hauling him outside.

“Yeah, we’ll come back later!” Newt says.

 _“No,_ Newt, we won’t.”

*   *   *   *   *

Chuck spends as little time with Herc outside of the Jaeger as possible, which—well, it isn’t ideal, but it does give him time to unwind.

He manages to get a workout room to himself, but instead of going for the weights, he thinks to himself: _fuck it. It’s a dance night._

He used to take Angela out dancing, back pre-Kaiju, and he was pretty good at it, much to everyone’s surprise (including his own). They were mostly partner dances, but he’s teaching himself some solo moves.

He’s mid-twirl when a voice from the door says, “I figured you’d be in here.”

He grins. “You know me too well, Stacker.”

“We need to go over some strategies,” Stacker says, leaning against the doorframe.

“Yeah, we do,” Herc says. “But not right this second.”

The music shifts into something faster, more upbeat, and Herc grabs Stacker’s hand and pulls him away from the wall. “You know how to dance?”

“No,” Stacker says, raising an eyebrow. “But you’re going to teach me, I’m sure.”

“It’s not difficult,” Herc says, adjusting Stacker’s hands so that one is in his and the other is on his shoulder. He lets his own free hand fall to Stacker’s waist. “It’s a simple box. I go forward and over, so you go back and over.”

Stacker picks it up quickly, and soon he isn’t even looking at his feet anymore. “Well, you learn something new every day,” he says dryly.

“Oh, yeah,” Herc snorts, sweeping Stacker into a dip. “Every day’s a new goddamn adventure.”

“And here I though you’d go in for a twirl,” Stacker says, and Herc can’t help but laugh.

*   *   *   *   *

They drift together, play basketball together, but they’re not _clones_ , despite what everyone else seems to think. They have different interests, and they can and do their own individual thing.

But even that time is spent in the shadow of Crimson Typhoon. It’s more comforting, somehow, to relax with a metal giant looking over your shoulder, especially if it’s _your_ metal giant.

Cheung likes to lie on the floor in front of Crimson Typhoon’s leg, propping his own legs straight up against it. He pops on a pair of headphones, and he’ll listen to audiobooks for hours. He goes for mystery novels, mostly—something where he can solve the puzzle, figure out the ending. Every so often, he’ll shout and throw his fist in the air, and his brothers will know he caught the murderer.

Jin sets up shop in front of Crimson Typhoon’s other leg, pinning up a dartboard and trying to beat his own score. When others wander by, he ropes them into a game. There’s a base-wide understanding that whoever beats Jin at darts will get free drinks for the rest of their life. So far, nobody has managed it.

Hu perches on a platform used for maintenance, high above his brothers, and sketches. Sometimes it’s the scenes he sees below, sometimes it’s portraits—he does one of Mako, once, as a gift for the Marshall, and he sketches a caricature of the Hansen kid to piss him off—but most often, he draws memories from the drift. Scenes from their childhood, from their fighting days, old memories of their mother and father.  These are the sketches that get intricately detailed and colored.

The three of them don’t talk during their time spread out over the Jaeger. There’s no need for it.

There will be plenty of time to talk in the drift.

*   *   *   *   *

Chuck’s mom told him once that if you folded a thousand paper cranes, you’d get a wish. He wasn’t sure if he believed her or not, but he’d sat down after school and folded a few cranes with her every day.

When the Kaiju attacked, the cranes were destroyed—burned up, gone.

So he starts over.

He doesn’t have the pretty colored papers available anymore, so his cranes are made out of whatever he can find—blueprints that Tendo’s scrapped, scribbled calculations from Hermann’s lab, old memos that he’s never read.

He folds one whenever he has time, and adds it on to the ever-growing string of cranes that decorates his room. Mako helps sometimes, before he’s assigned to a Jaeger and they stop speaking. He changes his mind almost constantly about what he’s going to wish for—some days he wishes for the Kaiju to stop, and some days he wishes for them to never stop coming.

Some days he wishes for his mom.

He figures he won’t know what his wish is until it’s there in front of him.

Mako finds him once he’s changed into his drift suit. She’s already suited up herself, carrying her helmet under her arm.

“I made you this,” she says, holding out a small blue crane. “When I heard you were being transferred here. I would have given it to you earlier, but—”

“But I insulted you and got in a fight with Becket, right,” Chuck says.

“I was going to say, ‘you were a total asshole,’ but that’s close enough,” she says with a slight smile. “Anyway, here. How many does that bring it up to?”

“Nine hundred and ninety-nine, actually,” he says, tying the crane onto the strings. “I guess we’ll save the last one for when the breach is closed.”

Mako smiles awkwardly and reaches out, her hand hovering over Chuck’s shoulder for a moment, but she withdraws it without ever making contact. “I guess you’ll finally get your wish,” she says, forcing cheerfulness into her voice. “What is it?”

“I don’t know,” he says, heading out the door, towards the shatterdome and the Jaeger and the breach. “I’ll tell you when we get back.”


End file.
